Jon held his breath but he heard others react with gasps; no one spoke.
Jon Brewer watched the Geryon’s carve the Leviathan into pieces and as he watched he saw something looming even larger over the scene than the dirigibles or the 1,000-foot-tall monster.
He saw—he felt—the hand of Trevor Stone.
He’s alive. He did it. Or Jorgie did. Whatever ‘it’ is.
The army of Voggoth hesitated, equally as dumbfounded as Jon’s forces. Still, they did react. A series of Spooks targeted the battleships but a halo of anti-air craft shells met the counter-attack. Only a handful of Spooks breached those defenses causing a flash here and a puff of smoke there but nothing fatal to the blimps.
“Sh-shep…”
Nothing.
Jon tried again to break through the trance cast over his people by the turn of events.
“Shep!”
“Huh? What? Oh, I—my god Jon, am I seein’ this?”
“Shep, get everyone together. Everyone who can walk and use a trigger finger,” and Jon swept his hands toward the bridges built by Voggoth’s mechanical frog-things. “Get them across. We’re attacking,” Jon turned and faced Cassy who watched with an expression of detachment; wonder.
“You too, Cassy. Everything we got left. And remember, the Geryons are friendly.”
From his position atop the Cargill grain elevator, Woody Ross watched the 12th Mechanized Infantry Brigade move along a convoluted series of roads and on-ramps that merged together just east of the Poplar Street Bridge. General Rhodes commanded this last combat-ready fighting force from a Humvee near the lead.
Also from his position, Ross could see Dunston’s reconnaissance Eagle flying over St. Louis beneath the storm clouds, having thus far managed to avoid The Order’s Spooks and the powerful AA batteries protecting the Centurian artillery south of downtown.
Human guns launched a series of muted volleys from the east side of the Mississippi. The howitzers shots landed in isolated puffs and booms amid Voggoth’s advancing force as the Roachbots, Feranites, and monsters of the mob passed the blasted remains of Busch stadium on I-64.
If everything went according to Ross’ plan, the lead elements of the enemy force would cross the Bridge and run head-on into Rhodes. He hoped the width of the bridge would create a bottle-neck for conditions like a modern-day battle of Thermopylae, negating the value of Voggoth’s superior numbers.
Ross’ plan did not execute as expected.
“Centurian guns are prepping to fire,” Dunston radioed. “If they’ve seen Rhodes they probably are going to starting nailing him.”
Ross agreed. He had witnessed the accuracy and firepower of that artillery firsthand in Wilkes-Barre the first winter of the invasion.
“General Rhodes,” Bear transmitted. “Enemy batteries are preparing to fire. You might be in their crosshairs.”
“Nothing I can do about that,” Rhodes responded solemnly.
A series of blue flashes flickered from the rail yard. Balls of energy arched into the air. Bear watched as those artillery shots—an entire cluster of them flying tight formation—slammed into Voggoth’s Leviathan standing amid the ruins of downtown. The hits turned large chunks of the creature’s skin into a powder that drifted to the wasteland below like a perverse snow.
Bear did not immediately comprehend what he saw. Did his eyes play a trick? Had the Centurians miscalculated their firing coordinates?
Dunston’s voice cut through the cavalcade of thoughts competing for Bear’s attention.
“Holy shit! They just blasted the piss out of the Leviathan!”
A mistake—this has to be a mistake.
As if to answer Bear, another volley of shots came from the Redcoats and—just as precisely as before—slammed into the walking skyscraper. This time the powerful rounds tore away an entire leg from the main body, causing the thing to collapse into the twisted girders and concrete mounds that remained of St. Louis. The tremor from the impact carried across the Mississippi shaking the Cargill building so hard that it threatened to break apart beneath him but Woody “Bear” Ross was too transfixed by the sight to notice.
Rhodes radioed from his place at the 12th Mechanized Infantry’s lead, “Woody! What the hell is going on?”
Ross answered, “I haven’t got a goddamn clue.”
Another round of Centurian fire fell into the ranks of Voggoth’s force. This time reducing Roachbots, Feranites, Ghouls, and assorted fiends to fine powder.
Dunston radioed from his observation Eagle in an even more excited voice, “Bear, if you think that’s fucked up, you won’t believe what I’m seeing now.”
They came from the west along Interstate 64, charging forward like cavalry from a John Wayne movie: Columns of Chaktaw infantry, the three-wheeled oversized bikes, elephant-sized lizards—and Nina Forest’s ragtag militia in cars and on foot forming a spear striking into the rear of Voggoth’s army.
Captain Forest had found the hilt of her blade and had pulled it to strike just as Jaff had said, “I have new orders,” and just as the figure in the dark shadow of the tent had stepped into the light. Not a bodyguard, but a Chaktaw woman of advanced age whose footsteps did not make a sound as she walked.
New orders.
The Chaktaw Force Commander had said those words as if it hurt his lips to speak them. She understood why as she raced forward in the passenger seat of a Trailblazer with her gun sights pointing east but expecting at any moment to be turned upon by her newfound alien ‘friends’.
The old woman—most certainly an architect of Armageddon—had told her, “The situation has changed.”
And Nina understood. She had mumbled, “Trevor?” to which the old Chaktaw woman responded with an affirmative nod.
Captain Nina Forest did not trust the Chaktaw. She had fought against them and their ilk for more than a decade. How could she set aside the hatred and anger to fight with her enemy?
The same way Jaff and his warriors set aside their hatred and anger. They had come to this Earth on the Old Woman’s call for crusade. She had steered them from battle to battle in attack the same way she had assisted the leader Fromm on the Chaktaw’s version of Earth in defense, a parallel universe away.
Nina and Jaff did what soldiers always did: they followed orders.
New orders.
And so the charge came from west to east—Chaktaw and human—hitting the rear area of Voggoth’s army by complete surprise. One of many surprises that day for Voggoth; and equally as many surprises for human and alien alike.
The joint force collided with the half-machine, half-monster brick-shaped boxes covered in red veins that provided the ‘Spook’ anti-air support for The Order. Chaktaw rail guns and human carbines cut through the undefended launchers in mere seconds.
The Chaktaw quickly assembled catapult-like artillery pieces of their own. Soon glowing red singularities joined the bombardment of blue Centurian guns aimed at the center of The Order’s forces near the stadium. The explosions sucked Ghouls and Roachbots into matter-eating beach-ball-sized spheres that ripped the targets apart atom by atom.
Nina—with Odin, a hobbling Vince, and the wounded corporal at her side—led a line of humans into battle at the flattened St. Louis Amtrak station against a horde of lumbering Deadheads, making quick work of the clumsy monsters before moving on to engage the tripod-like machines that had once been Feranites.
Jaff’s Chaktaw fighters slammed into a phalanx of Roachbots and Mortarbots; they engaged in a fierce fire fight around the blasted Scottrade Center north of the Interstate.
The Chaktaw lizards turned from pack animals to war-beasts, rampaging through and stomping a counter-attack of Ghouls. The ghastly creatures managed to pull down several of the lizards but not before the Chaktaw pets eviscerated the Ghouls’ charge.
Human citizen-soldiers fell by the dozen—but the Feranite machines broke.
Chaktaw fighters suffered 100 casualties, but routed the infestation of Roachbots at th
e arena.
The Centurian infantry entered the ground assault just as General Rhodes’ mechanized infantry crossed the Poplar Street Bridge.
Tank rounds joined powerful Centurian rifles; Chaktaw railguns fought in chorus with human carbines. Voggoth’s army—its Leviathan now nothing more than piles of gore—was corralled into a smaller and smaller circle among the ruins of the city they had destroyed.
Another blast of Geryon lasers cut a swath through a group of walking turrets as they tried to re-form a cohesive defense along Route 24 a half mile west of the riverbank. Their energy sacks ruptured and fire consumed the pillars and their guns; several walked around like self-propelled torches before toppling.
Through the fields to the north came the ten-foot-tall Golems of the Steel Guard. Their bipedal bodies resembled thick metal skeletons colored a scarlet red. Nothing elaborate or pretty; no concession to aesthetics. Large metal bolts served as joints on the knees and elbows. Two yellow camera-eyes glowed from beak-like faces. The arms ended in three thick, bulky clasps; similar to the projections on their ‘feet’ acted as toes.
Behind them rolled several smaller tracked machines resembling mine cars fitted with chutes and tubes so as to re-arm and maintain the mechanical war machines.
A line of Geryon infantry trailed the advancing Golems and their supply wagons. These humanoids wore battle suits made of materials similar to leather and metal. A tight fitting helmet covered their heads and a communicator next-of-kin to a ball gag covered their mouths. What little glances of their skin were visible—cheeks, wrists—appeared pale and soft. The aliens brandished weapons resembling high-tech crossbows that fired glowing steel rods.
The Geryon ground force chopped to pieces the Monks protecting The Order’s northern flank while the human force—supported by a handful of armored vehicles—overran the Spider Sentries covering the western bank of the Mississippi.
Jon Brewer operated a .50 caliber machine gun from the cupola of a badly-damaged Humvee. Jerry Shepherd—watching the road through a smashed windshield—drove the vehicle leading the human attack along CR-346 south of the main route where Voggoth’s last elements mustered for a final stand. Cassy Simms and her ten remaining horse soldiers broke off from the column to chase a band of Ogres fleeing south along a cluster of railroad tracks.
“Only a few stragglers left by the river,” Shepherd said with enthusiasm in his voice. Yet his suspicious eyes glanced in the direction of the hovering airships, expecting the Geryon lasers to turn toward mankind again at any moment.
Jon finished off a Heavy Duty Spider Sentry with a burst from the mounted gun and answered, “They’re all being horded along highway. Probably start breaking west any second.”
A massive boom of thunder broke Jon’s thoughts; a boom so loud he thought it might have come from between his ears, a lingering result of his concussion. But it had not. The sound pulled his eyes to the sky where the storm clouds that had followed Voggoth’s army across the country rolled and boiled with more intensity than ever.
Why isn’t the storm breaking?
Jon glanced at The Order’s remnants: a collection of Spider Sentries, Ogres, and Shell-Tanks backing into a tighter and tighter group surrounded on three sides with the battleships of the Geryon Reich floating overhead—and then suddenly those airships banked hard and accelerated in different directions as if retreating for their lives.
Another flash. Another boom. A gust of wind so strong it nearly toppled the truck.
Shep shouted, “Holy shit! Jon, we need to bug out.”
With that the Humvee accelerated, driving south at great speed.
Jon Brewer saw why.
The storm came alive. The clash between Voggoth’s unnatural storm and the living environment of Earth finally exploded and nature joined the battle.
Two massive, swirling tendrils draped down from the thunderheads like lowering strands of rope: spinning black and red vortexes encompassing all of nature’s fury.
The pair of tornadoes touched ground south of Taylor, a few miles west of the battlefield. They roared along Route 24 in a mesmerizing dance of beauty and destruction. Jon saw a roadside house blow apart into nothing.
The Geryon airships hurried from the path of destruction; ground troops both alien and human scattered north and south. But the forces of Voggoth were afforded no such escape.
The tornadoes tore into the remains of The Order’s mighty army with such power that they swept the ground clean; purified it of the infection. The machines and monsters of Voggoth’s legion were first blown apart and then sucked into the heavens where they disappeared into the storm clouds. Secondary explosions glimmered in the vortexes like ghosts.
Shepherd drove them to a safe distance and parked in a field. The cyclones—gently swaying side to side as they graced across the plains—passed to the north, sending the spectators a healthy gust of wind; a tiny taste of the power visited upon Voggoth. A not-so-subtle reminder of man’s insignificance in the face of nature.
Life, Jon thought. Nature. Like the Grenadiers. Defending its own.
Jon was struck by an intense feeling of kinship. At any other time, the mighty twisters would have filled him with instinctive fear. But not here. Not now. His entire world had been under siege, the very concept of life. Mankind had been the champion of that life, fighting for more than a decade on behalf of the entire planet. Now the conflict between nature and the creatures from Voggoth realm erupted—like matter and anti-matter colliding—adding the final stroke; expunging the last traces of infection.
As they reached the river the tornadoes fell apart in strands of wind and debris; retreating to the clouds from whence they came. The wind blew from hard to soft and then still.
Jon and Jerry Shepherd exited their vehicle and stood in the field without speaking a word. What could be said?
The thunder faded and the dark clouds cleared.
27. Baptism
A feeling of descent woke Nina. Her eyes shot open and for an instant she felt vulnerable; worried some enemy reached for her throat. However, instead of being in the midst of battle she sat in the passenger compartment of an Eagle transport. A few weary soldiers shared the rows of bench seats as did Odin, her faithful dog, who lay curled at her feet catching a snooze of his own.
It all made sense, of course. She needed the nap; she would need many more hours of sleep before the fatigue in her muscles waned. She also needed a good shower; the stink and stain of battle remained, a trait she shared with the other soldiers onboard the transport which made for an unpleasant, musty smell.
That vulnerable feeling? That made sense, too.
Nina did not trust the Chaktaw. She did not trust the Centurians or the Geryons, regardless of their claim of ‘new orders’; orders that changed the battlefield dynamic not only along the Mississippi, but across the world.
She knew—from looking in their alien eyes—that they did not trust her either. She could not blame them. If given the chance, Nina would have gladly driven her sword through any of them. After all they had done on her planet, forgiveness simply was not a part of the equation. She could not make happy and act as if a new day dawn. None of her kind could. That is why Jon Brewer and the rest of the brass—including the extraterrestrial commanders—kept the camps well-separated, particularly after the sides traded shots on more than one occasion. Only one thing kept the tinderbox from exploding: alien and human alike had grown tired of war.
The alien armies not only ceased hostilities, but they now desired to return home, meaning there remained no need to slaughter them as long as they dutifully marched through the runes of their own volition. From what Nina had seen at the front, the Chaktaw—and probably the rest—wanted nothing more than to get off this planet that had become a world of misery for them.
Still, the quicker they go through the runes, the better.
Apparently the Witiko had not signed on to the truce, therefore any of their kind found on Earth would be subject to immedia
te attack. But few of their number remained. Nina heard talk of isolated redoubts of Witiko in Alaska and some Pacific Islands but nothing concrete. Just like the alien animals and whatever remnants of Voggoth’s soulless ones remained, any isolated Witiko would be purged one way or another.
Furthermore, there were probably pockets of other militant aliens who had not heard of the truce; certainly this would lead to some awkward moments down the road. Brewer, Shepherd, and the rest worked with the extraterrestrial representatives to overcome those challenges.
No matter how hard they worked, Nina knew finishing the job would take time. Decades.
But now we’ve finally got time.
Despite a few incidents, the truce held; at least in the short term. And Nina knew in her heart that the truce came from Trevor Stone. He had engineered it. And if he had engineered it, that meant he still lived.
We’ve finally got time.
She felt the transport rock as the landing gear touched ground. Nina gathered her well-worn battle gear and joined the rest of the soldiers as they exited the craft. Vince Caesar was not among their number. He remained in a field hospital outside St. Louis receiving treatment for his leg. But he, too, had earned a trip home.
A rest.
And yes, for the first time in her life the idea of rest appealed to Nina. That idea—the idea of a break from fighting—felt strange to her. She felt—finished. Like she usually did at the end of a successful mission but this time she did not think another mission waited.
Nina exited the craft and walked across the paved landing pad. Late June had come to Annapolis and the temperature soared. The midday sun caused her to sweat, adding to her grimy, dirty feeling. She eagerly anticipated a return to her apartment.
An empty apartment.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 05 - Fusion Page 49
